


It Tastes Like Grief

by missjustkeepwriting



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:12:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missjustkeepwriting/pseuds/missjustkeepwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reid mourns Maeve and Morgan helps the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Tastes Like Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Criminal Minds.

Morgan’s phone rings and skitters on the granite counter-top.  
“Hello?”  
“Come over,” it takes Morgan a minute to recognize the voice; it’s wrecked by emotion. He hears Reid breathe a few ragged breaths before he says, “Please?”  
“Reid,” he whispers desperately.  
“Just come over.”  
“Do you need anything?”  
“No.”  
Morgan grabs his keys and heads for the door. He backtracks, goes into his landlord safe, and withdraws the keys with the chess piece keychain.  
When Reid had his anthrax scare, Morgan had been flipping a Victorian row-house. After the flip was over, he had trouble selling it. It was like he’d put his heart and soul into it; everything he had felt, all the love and despair he’d had, and sleepless nights had gone into the dilapidated home. He couldn’t sell it and when Reid needed a place after his lease ran out…well it seemed like the perfect choice. Especially since Morgan turned the bright 3rd small-enough-to-be-a-closet bedroom into a library. It might have been for someone in particular; it had been a project his contractor had frowned upon. Reid loved the place, and Morgan took comfort in that.  
He drives a little fast, and he may cut off everyone and their mother to get that half foot closer to Reid. Halfway there, Morgan feels guilty for bringing along the landlord keys, but he slips them into his pocket anyways. He promises himself he won’t use them, except for an emergency. When he parks in from of the row house, he calls Reid to let him know he’s there.  
“Just come in,” Morgan makes to protest, when Reid continues, “I know you brought your keys.”  
He unlocks the door a little guiltily and walks in the front door. He drops his keys on the entryway table when he sees Reid. Reid’s long legs are folded under him like a pretzel at the living room coffee table; there’s a vial, needle, and belt sitting on the table in front of him.  
“Reid?”  
“It’s a lethal dose.”  
Morgan presses his lips tightly together and he blinks his eyes slowly, crying is not going to do anything for Reid.  
“I assumed my last thoughts were going to be about her and most of them were, but…”  
“Reid?”  
“But then I thought of you. I knew you’d be the one that would come looking for me, and I couldn’t do that to you. Not after Gideon.”  
“Thank you,” he feels stupid saying it, in light of what Reid is saying, but it is one of the most sincere things he’s ever said.  
“I thought seeing you would make it stop; I thought I would want to live, but I don’t, not really.”  
“Tell me what I can do.”  
“I don’t know.”  
Morgan sits behind Reid on the couch; they listen to each other breathe, or rather shudder.  
“How did you let me go?”  
“What?”  
“When you knew I wanted to be with Maeve, how did you let me go and still want to live?” It’s a hurtful question he knows, but he needs the answer. He craves the answer.  
“That was different, Reid.”  
“How?”  
“I knew you were going to be happy, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. We were still going to be friends, and I could still love you in this world. It’s not the same, kid, not even close.”  
“Will you flush it?”  
“Of course.”  
Morgan picks up the vial, shuffles out of the room, opens it, and pours the contents into the toilet. He flushes it with a relieved sigh and closes his eyes. He scrubs his hand over his face, splashes cool water on his face, and almost gives himself a pep talk in the mirror.  
When he returns to the living room, Reid is spinning the needle on the table. Morgan picks it up and cracks the barrel.  
“I think flushing the dilaudid was enough,” Reid comments.  
“I know you could give yourself an embolism.”  
Reid’s lips curve up in wry smile because he knows that too, and he won’t lie that’s what he was contemplating when Derek reentered the room.  
“Will it ever stop?”  
“I don’t know, pretty boy, you know it as well as I do that it is different from everyone; I thought you were getting better.”  
“There’s a reason the Kubler-Ross model commonly places denial before depression.”  
Morgan doesn’t respond; he just sits quietly on the couch. His foot grazes Reid’s quad; Reid places a hand on Morgan’s boot.  
“I’m getting tired,” Reid says suddenly, “Will you…will you?”  
“I’ll stay right here, pretty boy, point me to the linen closet and I’ll make myself at home right here on the couch,” he says emphatically, patting the worn leather.  
“Will you sleep with me?”  
“I…I…”  
“I need to feel somebody.”  
“Anything you need.”  
Morgan goes to his SUV and grabs his go-bag. While he doesn’t typically wear pajamas, he does have his workout gear. He slips into the basketball shorts and tank that are rolled at the bottom of his bag. He splashes water on his face, again. When he gets to Reid’s bedroom, Reid is already curled up in the fetal position on the left side of the bed. Morgan lies next to him like a log. He closes his eyes and concentrates on steadying everything that’s rushing through him. He feels Reid’s tentative fingers grab his and rest them on Reid’s ribs. Morgan could count them if he wanted to, but he doesn’t he just exists with his fingers grazing over Reid’s flannel top.  
Morgan falls asleep after a long while and the repetitiveness of his fingers skimming the younger man’s body soothes something inside of him. It’s late when he’s pulled out of his hectic dreams; Reid’s fingers are trailing over his navel playing with the band of his shorts.  
“Reid,” he reprimands groggily, “You don’t want this.”  
“I do, I really do,” Reid returns, his fingers dipping under the band he’s only played at before. Morgan shivers.  
“I don’t want this,” Morgan whispers and gently pushes Reid’s hand away.  
“Derek.”  
“I’m going to go sleep on the couch.”  
Reid flops over and Morgan can hear his wrangled sob.  
Morgan can’t sleep so he watches a Super Bowl on ESPN Classic. The commentators drawling voice lolls him into a desperate sleep. He wakes early, looks around the barren kitchen, and makes a trip the grocers.  
Reid is sitting at the counter when he gets back; he’s sipping on the coffee Morgan brewed before he left. His eyes are red-rimmed and expression remorseful.  
“I’m sorry, fuck, Morgan, I’ve never been more sorry in my life.”  
“It’s fine, Reid,” Morgan assures as he empties bags of essentials.  
“It’s not; that was awful. You have every right to hate me.”  
“I don’t hate you.”  
“I don’t deserve you.”  
“You do.”

Reid knows he doesn’t deserve the next three nights Morgan spends curled up on the uncomfortable couch to make sure he’s okay. Or the way Morgan forgets about his unwanted advances. And the way Morgan makes him coffee and breakfast every morning with his congenial smile and easy attitude.  
It’s not easy to get over Maeve or to not have his heart clench at undue times, like when he walks past a used bookshop in Georgetown or a payphone in Kansas City. He knows he should be thanking everybody for their support instead of wallowing, and he does superficially. He just doesn’t believe it’s enough to really thank them for all they do.  
It’s hard to not want to die. He never understood it nearly as much as he does now. He wants to die and it takes a lot more effort for him not to. He reminds himself of everything he loves in the world and surrounds himself with it, but he still struggles every day.  
It takes Reid months to finally approach Morgan about that night.  
“Morgan, we need to talk.”  
“Yeah, Reid?”  
“I wanted to talk about the night that you came over.”  
“We don’t need to talk.”  
“Yes, we do.”  
“Absolutely, no, we don’t.”  
“Morgan, I knew, know,” he stutters, “how you feel about me and I used that against you. I have never been more sorry in my life. What I did was unforgiveable in a human sense, but I know you and what happened to you. It just makes it worse.”  
Morgan won’t look at him throughout the whole speech; he’s shuffling papers on his desk and avoiding eye contact.  
“Well, I’ve forgiven you,” Morgan says overly nonchalant, “no biggie, pretty boy.”  
“Just because I was under duress, it doesn’t mean the advance wasn’t warranted,” Reid says softly as Morgan turns away.  
“Stop,” Morgan shouts and runs a hand over his face.  
“It’s true, Morgan,” Reid says, trying not to sound like he’s pleading.  
Morgan scoffs and walks purposefully out of the office.  
Reid is left standing in the middle of the office gaping.  
There is no more discussion of it.  
The next case is harder to watch Morgan go through than Reid can imagine. Young boys with no fathers being assaulted and raped by a man they look up to. Garcia would usually be his comforter, but she can only do so much over the phone. She calls Reid’s cell and demands he takes care of Morgan, but he can’t. Morgan is so walled off to him.  
Reid would usually naturally fall into the role of comforting Morgan, now that Prentiss is gone. Morgan flinches every time Reid goes to place a hand on his shoulder or even brush against him. Reid understands, but that doesn’t make it hurt. It makes both of them irritable and shorter with the local LEOs. Hotch narrows his eyes at both of them and they attempt to harness their inner turmoil. Reid is out of his mind with watching Morgan struggle, and he hopes the rejection isn’t based on a change of feeling but an anger that will wear away.  
Comfort comes in an odd source, well Reid has to reconsider that frame of thought, it’s not completely odd. Rossi approaches Morgan while he’s sitting reviewing the man, Reginald Crosby’s, holdings and relations. He drops both hands onto the larger man’s shoulders, Morgan jumps imperceptibly, he gives a quick manly rub like he’s preparing Morgan for a boxing match, Morgan closes his eyes tightly and reclines, Rossi moves his left hand to the right shoulder, leans over, and they discuss what they’ve found. When Rossi walks to talk to JJ, Morgan leans back in the chair, holding his hands above his head with his eyes closed. He looks like a weight has been lifted. He smiles a little to himself, rubs his eyes, and returns to the files.  
Everyone on the team does little comforting things for Morgan. Rossi keeps treating him like a prize fighter. Hotch shows up with a Dr. Pepper that he definitely didn’t get from the station’s Pepsi vending machine. JJ orders Morgan’s favorite take-out food, steak burritos with guacamole. Blake, who isn’t nearly as aware of Morgan’s past, keeps giving him curious looks but has caught onto the rest of team’s attitude and sets a steaming cup of chamomile tea down in front of Morgan one evening. Reid almost scoffs at the cup until Morgan grins, thanks her, sips, and sighs into the cup. Except Reid, Reid doesn’t do anything to comfort Morgan and it’s warranting critical looks from the rest of the team. He wants to shout at them that he’s made a terrible mistake but he doesn’t; he just sits and takes the glares.  
They finish the case and it’s a dragged out chase through the woods outside Crosby’s hunting cabin. Reid finds Morgan at the hotel’s bar; he’s drinking two fingers of whiskey. He sits next to Morgan quietly, Morgan barely glances at him, and Reid thinks he’s going to move away.  
“When you came into my office, I so wanted to believe you,” he says into the glass, taking a swig and smirking into the cup.  
“Why didn’t you?”  
“Because you’ll regret us.”  
“Not true.”  
“I’ll never be more than your rebound; I can’t be your rebound.”  
“You won’t be my rebound.”  
“I can’t risk that.”  
“You’d rather have nothing than the something we could try for.”  
“It’s not nothing Reid. What we have is not nothing,” he says seriously his eyes boring into Reid’s face. “And I can’t risk it.”  
“You risk everything,” Reid shouts, “You risk your life on 64% of our cases; yes, I’ve calculated it.”  
“You would,” Morgan snorts, he gets up and starts to walk away, “What we’ve got is what you need.”  
“Why does everyone think they know what I need?”  
He watches Morgan walk away; the weight still heavy across the tense shoulders.  
Reid thinks the plane is going to be awkward, so he curls up on the couch and hopes for sleep. When he wakes up, Morgan is at the end of the couch, headphones on, head tilted back, and his hand resting lightly on Reid’s ankle.

Reid sits on the foldable chair watching Morgan pull down rotting wood.  
“I didn’t know you liked Bob Dylan,” Reid says conversationally.  
They’ve moved back to being friends; it’s tentative and awkward. But Reid’s all right with pushing these hardships if they can go back to the way they were.  
“I don’t,” he says and his arm muscles strain as he wails on a warped nail, “I know you like him.”  
Reid smiles at the easygoing response.  
“Do you need any help?”  
Morgan snorts, lays down his hammer, and turns toward Reid, “You didn’t come ready to work, pretty boy, so why are you offering? I mean for fuck’s sake you’re wearing new Oxfords and a sweater vest.”  
Reid looks at his hands sheepishly and shrugs.  
“Thanks though,” Morgan says as he picks back up the hammer and pulls down the other boards.  
Reid watches his muscles move and he’s struck by the beauty of Morgan’s body. He can see his shoulder blades move under his tight t-shirt, his glutes tighten in his shorts, and all the contractions his body makes to demo the room. Reid knows muscles; he studied his biology text, but watching Morgan’s body move is fascinating and time consuming.  
“Do you always do the demolition yourself?”  
“Normally, when I bring in other, they’re in it to rip everything out and remodel,” Morgan says, “I’m in it to restore it to the closest possible reconstruction of the building it used to be. I try to reclaim everything I can.”  
Reid thinks about how Morgan has restored himself. How much he’s changed; how he’s overcome. Every one of them in the BAU has overcome something and they’re about restoring themselves as people and not just replacing everything. Reid smiles to himself and tips the chair back.  
“If you tip that back too far and break your neck, I am not liable,” Morgan jokes as he examines the archway between the living room and dining room.  
Reid can’t help but laugh and drop his chair back down so all four legs are on the ground. Morgan smiles when he hears the legs smack the ground.  
When they are, well Morgan is, finished, Morgan hugs Reid affably. He smells of cologne and perspiration. His skin and shirt are damp. He’s almost too warm. And Reid savors every second that the hug lasts.  
When they fly to Chicago, Reid feels anxiety pour through his veins and he finds himself watching every move Morgan makes. When Morgan shares his story with the whole team, Reid feels his heart in his throat. He has second-hand acid reflux, his gum dissolving in his mouth, for Morgan as he methodically explains how Buford got to the boys, himself included. For the most part, the team knows; well they at least have inklings. But to hear it, so methodically laid out, causes the members to be struck by the realness. Hotch stands like he’s ready to back Morgan up at any second. Rossi rubs a hand over his face and looks resigned. JJ gets this motherly look on her face that is outlined by aggression. Blake looks empathetic and ready for retribution. And Reid is pretty sure he looks heartbroken. Morgan sounds like he’s detached himself from the events, but he loses his flow, hits a snag in his speech, and hiccups with emotion.  
Reid is not the aggressive type, but nothing has made him want to kill a human being more than hearing what happened to Morgan makes him want to kill Carl Buford. The whole case he watches Morgan like a hawk and he looks mostly put together; at least, it is better than last time. Reid walks into the precinct’s kitchenette and Morgan follows closely behind him.  
“You’re driving me crazy,” Morgan says as he leans against the door.  
“Excuse me?”  
“The looks you’re giving me are driving me crazy.”  
“How?”  
“I don’t want your pity.”  
“It’s not pity.”  
“Then what is it?”  
“Sympathy.”  
“That’s just a fancy word for pity, pretty boy.”  
“And love.”  
Morgan closes his eye and leans his head against the wall.  
“I wish you would stop saying stuff like that,” Morgan whispers, pushes himself off the wall, and walks back to the team.  
Watching Morgan tell the reporters about his abuse is both nerve wracking and a great relief. Maybe the confession will bring Morgan some peace and maybe it will help other people like him. When Morgan gets the call on the place, the tears are mostly relief, but Reid cannot pinpoint the other emotion that is mixed in there.  
After the phone call, Morgan does not talk, even when they get off the plane. He walks purposefully and Reid feels like he’s almost jogging to catch up.  
“Come home with me,” Reid demands.  
“That’s not a good idea.”  
“You can’t be alone, right now.”  
“I wasn’t going to be.”  
“Where are you going then?”  
“To a bar, preferably one where I can find willingness for guilt-free sex.”  
“I’ll go with you.”  
“Still not a good idea.”  
“I don’t care.”  
“Fine.”  
Morgan drives them to a place that is walking distance to Reid’s place. He calls for two shots of whiskey the minute he pushes through the door. He’s going for the efficient way. Reid sits next to him uncomfortably at the bar as Morgan pounds shots.  
“You drink or you leave,” Morgan says suddenly, pushing a shot in front of Reid. Reid looks at it speculatively and throws it back. He tries to pace himself and watch Morgan, but his tongue starts to get fuzzy and his limbs feel languid. Morgan starts to flirt with the people at the bar. It scares Reid.  
He pulls on Morgan’s arm and says, “Come home with me.”  
“’S not a good idea,” Morgan slurs.  
“Yes, it is.”  
“Okay, maybe ‘tis.”  
They stumble the two blocks, Reid fumbles with the lock, and they finally stumble into the door.  
“We can…” Reid trails off, when Morgan pushes him against the door, hikes him up, and kisses him roughly. The kiss is a clash of teeth and mouths. It edges on the side of painful and Reid grips Morgan’s head and pulls him closer.

His mouth is stiff with dehydration and his head throbs with pain. He rolls onto his back and his stomach does the same. He hopes there is a glass of water on his bedside table; he’s way too old for this shit. His eyes crack open and his head screams louder. There’s an orange Gatorade on the bedside table and a post-it note.  
“Thought you might need it –SR,” is scrawled across it in Reid’s slanted handwriting.  
“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath and he stumbles to the bathroom; he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He sits there for a minute and thinks about what a stupid shit he is. Reid is still in love with Maeve; it makes him vomit again. He stumbles around the room trying to find his clothes; he’s close to throwing up again.  
He needs to leave as quickly as possible. He stumbles down the stairs still feeling intoxicated; he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t drive home. He’ll sleep the rest of it off in his car. He fumbles with the front door knob, when he hears a guffaw.  
“Nothing happened,” Reid assures as he sips on the steaming coffee in his hands.  
Morgan doesn’t respond.  
“You passed out the minute you sat on the bed.”  
He still doesn’t respond.  
“We were both too intoxicated.”  
“You should have listened to me when I said it wasn’t a good idea,” Morgan moves to walk out the door after his fumbling finally opens the door.  
“Everything’s fine.”  
“It’s not fine; I don’t think you understand the definition of fine, Reid.”  
“Fine is defined as ‘of superior quality, skill, or appearance’.”  
“Not now, Reid,” Morgan sighs, pressing his hand onto his forehead.  
“What does fine mean?” Reid almost shots.  
“The opposite of this; we can’t be doing this,” Morgan hisses through his teeth.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Having no hope with you was better than this; I can’t have you act like you’re ready for a relationship with me. You’re clearly not. It hasn’t been that long since she died and you’re trolling through the denial phase. You’re projecting your feelings for her onto me and I can’t stand it.”  
“That’s not true.”  
“It fucking is and you know it; you’re going to get over me when you reach that acceptance part of the grieving process. Not having you, having you, and then losing you is not something I want to do.”  
“I’m an adult I can make those decisions for myself.”  
“Not when you’re involving my life, too.”  
“But,” Reid goes on to rebuke him, before Morgan interrupts him.  
“Do you still love her?” Reid just stares at him; his mouth goes slightly agape.  
“I… I… yes.”  
“Then we can’t do this; I won’t be your tool to speed up this process. We’ll just grow to resent each other. Reid, I love you. I’ve never tried to hide that, but I beg you don’t use it against me. I beg that you come to me only after you’ve grown to accept her death and don’t love her anymore.”  
“You can’t ask me to do that.”  
“Maybe not, but I just did.”  
“I may never stop loving her.”  
“And I’ll never stop loving you.”  
“Where does that leave us?”  
“Waiting.”  
“’I can imagine few things more trying to the patience than the long wasted days of waiting’,” Reid quotes.  
“Don’t quote people at me.”  
“This is the same conversation we keep having.”  
“Because we can’t seem to solve this situation.”  
“What needs to be solved?”  
“Your feelings.”  
“I care about you and you care about me. What’s to solve?”  
“It’s not as simple as you want it to be and you know it’ll kill me. You treat it so superfluously, but it would kill me.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“If you care about me as much as you say you do, you’ll wait it out.”  
BREAK  
They don’t discuss it any longer. They go back to their friendship. They don’t talk about it. They wait for something. Morgan observes him as he always has with the sort of reverence that frightens himself and Garcia. Garcia who has seen it coming all along and doesn’t know how to stop her baby boy from falling into this cycle of hopelessness; she sets him up on numerous dates and he’s cordial and charismatic but a relationship never flourishes. Reid really does wallow in his grief and maybe he’ll heal one day or maybe he won’t. He spends more time with Rossi; Rossi teaches him more Italian recipes.  
They’re both happy, but it’s a kind of shallow in the moment happiness that won’t last more than a few hours at a time; it’s laced with deep sorrow. A sorrow that is hard to process and accept. The thing about being a profiler is you’re so aware of what emotions can do that you either ignore yours or overanalyze them. Maybe this should be about living them out. They live them out in their own ways: Morgan throws himself into a restoration and Reid throws himself into a new degree.  
“Who was your first true love?” Reid asks Morgan months after the morning after as they walk to the parking garage.  
“Dejah Thomas.”  
“High school sweetheart.”  
“College.”  
“Do you still love her?”  
“To some extent I’ll always feel something for her, but she’s married now and we’d have never worked out well.”  
“I still love Maeve, but I know she’s gone and I don’t want that to hold us back.”  
“Reid…”  
“If you change your mind, I’m the first in line. Honey, I’m still free. Take a chance on me,” he sings off-key.  
“ABBA, really?”  
“My dad loved them; that’s what I remember most about him after he left. I can sing ever ABBA song ever written.”  
“So you want a chance?”  
“Take a chance on me,” he deadpans.  
“I think I can do that.”

Epilogue

“Papa,” squeals the bright-eyed seven-year old as she rushes to Reid as he walks through the door and drops his go-bag. Her barrettes clack with her speed. “I missed you, Papa.”  
“I missed you too Nia,” Reid responds, picking her up and holding her close to his chest. He presses his lips to her forehead and smells the coconut detangler Morgan buys her. The case he just returned from was about kidnapped children and holding his closer eases the part of him that was on edge the whole time. The part of him that couldn’t sleep and the part of him that after not sleeping for three days went to the Walgreens around the corner from the hotel and bought the same detangler. He sprayed it on the Northwestern hoddie he keeps in his go bag for moments when he feels weak and lost.  
“Hey, Spencer,” Donovan calls from the couch where he’s playing Xbox.  
He shifts Nia to one hip and goes over and squeezes her brother’s shoulder.  
“Missed you too Donovan,” Reid says softly, the slight turn up of the boy’s mouth is the most positive acknowledgement that he’s ever gotten from that statement.  
“Where’s daddy?” Reid asks Nia.  
She points towards the kitchen and Morgan comes out with a big smile on his face. Reid can smell his favorite, spaghetti and meatballs, cooking.  
“Daddy and I went to the Italian store for your favorite meatballs.”  
“Well, that was very nice of you,” he tells her.  
“Heard it was a rough case,” Morgan says with a slight tilt to his head.  
“That woman needs to learn when to keep information to herself.”  
“Somebody’s got to tell me.”  
“I don’t want you to worry.”  
Morgan scoffs, “I always worry about you, pretty boy.”  
Morgan reaches out and Reid leans into it. Morgan grabs a hold of his neck and kisses him on the forehead. He presses their foreheads together and kisses him again on the mouth.  
“Me too daddy,” Nia sniffs, Morgan smiles indulgently at her, and kisses her forehead.  
Morgan takes Nia out of Reid’s arms and puts her on the ground, “Nini, darling, go get your present for papa that you made at school.”  
“Okay,” she screeches as she races to her bedroom.  
“We’ve got maybe two minutes,” Morgan says dragging Reid into the kitchen. He pushes him against the counter and grabs the back of Reid’s neck roughly. Their lips and teeth crash together and Reid lets out a sigh that he’s been hold in. Morgan reaches for Reid’s wrists and gently runs his thumbs along the pulse points in sharp contrast to the way his mouth seeks to leave bruises on Reid’s neck.  
When the thunderous sound of a child at full tilt reaches their ears, Morgan stops and rests head against Reid’s shoulder. One of his thumbs still runs along the throbbing pulse.  
“Look Papa,” she nearly shouts waving the paper-mache butterfly.  
“Be careful,” Reid says to her smiling.  
“We learned all about butterflies,” Nia rambles, “Did you know that butterflies start out as caterpillars and then they eat a lot and then they wrap themselves up and then become a crystal…a crystal -list.”  
“A chrysalis,” Reid enunciates.  
“That’s what I said, Papa,” she says petulantly.  
“No, Nia, you said crystal-list. Let’s try it together, okay?” Reid asks and Nia pouts for a second before nodding. She mumbles, “Chrysalis,” while Reid says it emphatically.  
“This is a very beautiful butterfly,” he comments holding it up to inspect it.  
“Thank you,” she replies with a grin that overwhelms her face, “Some of the other kids painted theirs crazy colors, but I painted mine symmetrically that’s what my teacher said it’s called and that’s what real butterflies look like. Their wings look the same on both sides. Just like I have arms on both sides.”  
“I’ll keep this on my desk,” he responds.  
“Okay,” she grins, “I’m gonna go play with my dolls now.”  
She skips out of the room and Reid kisses Morgan’s forehead where it’s still rested against his neck.  
“That desk must be getting pretty packed with crafts.”  
“I have a rotation,” Reid laughs.  
Morgan laughs but his face gets quickly serious and he whispers, “God, I missed you,” as he breathes deeply at Reid’s neck. He moves suddenly away from Reid and goes to the stove.  
“Nia seems good, how’s Donovan?” Reid asks as Morgan tends to the pots on the stove.  
“He’s getting better; he’s really liking basketball and I think his coach is having a great influence over him.”  
“But you still worry?”  
“I mean, my mom thought Carl Buford was having great influence over me you know?”  
“Yes.”  
“And to compound that, I still don’t know how much Don trusts us.”  
“It has been a hard transition for him.”  
“Nia just wedged her way into our lives and us in hers and it’s like she’s always been ours.”  
“But, you have to remember, she came to us when she was four years old. We are basically all she remembers. To her, we’ve almost always been her parents. It’s not like that with Donovan. He still needs to adjust. He was a really troubled twelve year old when we met him.”  
“He is getting better.”  
“He smiled a little when I told him I missed him.”  
“That’s new.”  
“I know. I almost wrapped him in a hug.”  
“That would’ve stopped that.”  
“I know, that’s why I refrained.”  
“Do you think he’ll ever truly want to be our son?”  
“I don’t know, but I never thought you were going to give me a chance.”  
“But I did.”  
“Yes, you did.”

It’s not until his eighteenth birthday that he says it. It’s like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He almost packs his bags before he heads downstairs. He still sometimes thinks they only begrudgingly took him to get his sister, but he holds out just that little bit of hope and leaves all his stuff where it is in his room. There’s Morgan and Reid in the kitchen talking quietly to each other as they drink their coffee, like any normal day. And when they look up, they smile excitedly at him and he can feel the tension drain from his shoulders.  
“Happy birthday,” they chorus.  
“I made you your favorite,” Reid says, “Banana-chocolate chip muffins.”  
“And I made the coffee,” Morgan says, “Strong, but of course that’s how we all like it.”  
“Thanks, papa, thanks, dad,” he says as he walks to get the muffins and coffee from the counter.  
He doesn’t even make it the ten steps to the counter before chairs are scraped across the ground and he’s wrapped in two sets of arms. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Morgan wipes tears from his cheeks.  
“It’s your birthday, but you’ve just given us one of the best presents ever.”  
They all sniffle.  
“Why today?” Morgan asks seriously.  
“Because you did all this and you didn’t have to.”  
“What are you talking about?” Spencer asks.  
“I’m eighteen, you don’t have to do this anymore.”  
“You, idiot.” Morgan sighs, pulling the back of his neck closer and kissing the top of his head.  
He lets them hold him for another minute, and while he’ll never admit it he soaks in their love.  
“You finally said it,” Nia says as she walks into the kitchen pushing sand from her eyes, “Finally.”  
“They actually love me,” He responds.  
“I’ve been telling you.”  
Reid smiles at the exchange and is overwhelmed by how happy he is that he didn’t let his grief overwhelm him all those years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Any feedback is appreciated.


End file.
